Not Reading â€˜Fifty Shades Of Greyâ€™ Makes Me Feel Like A Prude
The Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy has topped the New York Times bestseller list once again this week â€“ making it 20 weeks on the most coveted, literary popularity contest in existence. There are two problems I have with this. First, I find it hard to believe mothers are the ones buying all of these books. Second, I am a little resentful that my disinterest in reading X-rated fan fiction is making me feel like a total prude.
There have been countless articles analyzing why it is so popular amongst the Mommy set â€“ the books have even been labeled Mommy Porn.Â But the more I think about it, the more it just doesn’t add up. Thereâ€™s no way that mothers are making this the hit that it is. No way. We’re talking 1664 pages â€“ that’s how long the complete trilogy is. You’re telling me that mothers have time to read this? And after reading the kinky opus, they have even more time to dedicate to improving their sex lives? I call bullshit.
My toddler is going though the precursor to the terrible twos. Seemingly overnight, he has gone from my little, sweet, smiling angel to a holy terror that cannot be pleased. If there is one thing in my life I want a little help and guidance with, it is figuring out how to make sure I don’t turn him into a demanding little brat. Between work, keeping my house a halfway decent living space, making sure my family is fed and playing with my child, I barely have time to read books that might help me with this quest. I have taken to PVR-ing episodes of Supernanny, hoping to procure something useful in a heavily edited, half-hour show. If I hardly have time for that, I certainly don’t have time for this:
“‘Can we marry tomorrow?’ Christian murmurs softly in my ear. I am sprawled on his chest in the flowery bower in the boathouse, sated from our passionate love making.”
In no way am I implying mothers shouldn’t have some guilty pleasures in their lives. There has to be some time that isn’t dedicated to parenting. But this?Â I have absolutely no idea what a flowery bower is, and “sated from our passionate lovemaking” is a phrase that actually makes me un-horny, if un-horny is a word.
Somehow, not having the time to masturbate to this book has made me feel like more of a prude than half of the housewives in America. How did this happen? I’m not a prude. So why do I feel this way? I swear I caught my husband looking at me, thinking, Where are the handcuffs? Why isn’t your inner Goddess prostrate? As if there weren’t enough to do in my daily life already, now I need to work on turning myself into some submissive sex goddess.
I bought a piece of lingerie six months ago. I still haven’t put it on. I’m not saying there hasn’t been sex. I’m just saying there is a very narrow window when all the planets align, making sex possible in our house. Baby’s asleep! We’re both awake! Woot, woot! Let’s go! I barley have time to slip into costume, let alone peruse sex shops for benoit balls and handcuffs. And thanks a lot for putting anal sex on the table, E.L. James. Whose side are you on? I consider myself a renaissance woman, but I’m not sure that I’m ready to add that to my arsenal of talents. Oh, the pressure.
I don’t know, maybe you just have to prioritize these things. Maybe I need to make time to read 1,600 pages of X-rated fan fiction, and loosen up. But if it’s really mothers who are making these books so wildly popular, I have to know: how do you find the time? Clearly I’m doing something wrong.
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